


Storm Cell

by Pixie (Ayiana)



Category: JAG
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-18
Updated: 2010-06-18
Packaged: 2017-10-10 04:24:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayiana/pseuds/Pixie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A family crisis throws Harm into turmoil and threatens to destroy everything he holds dear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storm Cell

**Author's Note:**

> Acknowledgements: Thanks go to Jan for her helpful technical advice, to Doc_3 for both technical advice and editing assistance, and to TK, who's one of the best beta readers I've ever had the pleasure of working with.
> 
> Author's Note: In Naval aviator parlance, a fur ball is "a confused aerial engagement with many combatants" (think messy dogfight) from an online glossary of aviator slang. Also, SATO stands for Scheduled Airline Ticket Office, and refers to the agency responsible for arranging things like commercial flights and rental cars for military personnel.
> 
> Author's Note 2: Though technically not a sequel to _Flight Plans_, this is set in that universe.

The storm breaks with a flash-bang that far outclasses anything the Navy has in its arsenal. In seconds it's all Harm's wipers can do to keep up with the deluge. He glances at the clock. Shakes his head. If this keeps up traffic will slow to a crawl and they'll miss their flight.

Ahead of him Mac's brake lights flare as she compensates for the decreased visibility. She's probably thinking the same thing he is—a missed flight could mean a twenty-four hour delay. He searches his memory, trying to remember if there are any five-star hotels near the airport. If he can't get her home he can at least make sure she gets a good night's rest in a comfortable bed.

A quick glance in the rear-view mirror elicits a mild curse. There's a car coming up fast behind him, too fast for these conditions. It darts across two lanes of traffic, skims the left shoulder as it zips around an eighteen wheeler, then bolts all the way back to the right, zigzagging between the other cars like a fighter pilot dodging an air wing of MIGs.

"Idiot."

Harm taps the brake, opening extra space between him and Mac. And he isn't surprised when the other car, a sleek black jaguar, dashes up beside him, hesitates, and then rabbits through the opening and back over to the left lane.

"He's gonna get us all killed." He checks the clock again as Mac prepares to move right, her blinkers flashing on and then off again. The sign for their exit looms ahead.

Thunder nearly drowns out the blare of horns, but he can't miss the explosion of brake lights or the chilling sight of a tanker truck swerving hard, shuddering, and surrendering to the laws of physics.

Before Harm can do more than tighten his grip on the wheel all hell breaks loose.

An F-150 three lengths ahead overcompensates, hits standing water, and hydroplanes, dumping its load of tires onto the highway. Harm takes a hard right around the tires, snaps left to dodge a skidding minivan, then swerves right again, tires fighting for purchase on the wet pavement. He aims for the right shoulder and hits the brake. But before he can stop something slams into him from behind and sends him fishtailing back across three lanes of traffic while somewhere ahead red-orange light flares, brilliant and sinister.

Fire.

He wrestles the sedan to a bone-jarring stop against the Jersey barrier and flings open the door. Ignoring the water that splashes up to his knees he takes off through the pouring rain. Where is she? Where the _hell_ is she?

There. Harm stumbles, his stomach clenching with fear.

"_No_! Oh, God. Please no."

He blinks the rain out of his eyes. Looks again. It's her car, all right—belly up, wheels spinning ... and crushed into the underside of the overturned tanker some eighty yards down the highway. Flames dance on the tanker's engine.

Harm races down the highway, ignoring the other cars and their passengers, ignoring the rain, ignoring everything but the urgent need to get to Mac before the tanker explodes.

There's a narrow gap between Mac's hood and the pavement. Harm drops. Rolls to his back. Knees bent, he slams his heels into the asphalt and jettisons himself into the opening. Icy fear crashes over him when he gets his first glimpse of her. The seatbelt that saved her life during the crash could kill her now, the tightly woven fabric cutting deep into the side of her neck and holding her suspended in her seat. There's a cut across her temple, another behind her left ear. And she doesn't respond when he calls her name.

"Mac!" His voice is strained. Desperate. "Damn it, Mac! Talk to me!"

He finds a crack in the safety glass and forces his fingers into it.

"Mac!" He's a fighter pilot, trained to keep his cool in crisis situations. But this ...He feels his control slipping. "_Mac!_"

People are moving around him. He hears voices. Sirens. There's a smell of oily smoke, a vague sense of searing heat.

Fingers hooked into the leading edge of the crack, he pulls. Nothing happens. He shifts, angling his body for better leverage, and pulls again. Feels it give a little. Forcing his other hand into the opening he pulls one more time.

Someone grabs at his feet. There's a loud, urgent voice that should make sense, but doesn't.

He kicks out hard and the hands let go. Freed, Harm pounds on the window again. Harsh, ragged breaths rip from his lungs.

"Mac!"

"Sir!"

It's two of them this time. They drag him out and up. He sees badges. Uniforms. Clenched, determined jaws. They pull him away from the wreck and force him to a standstill while the rescue team moves in. Ten feet away, another squad floods the engine of the overturned tanker with fire suppressant foam.

It takes fifteen minutes, fifteen agonizing minutes, for the crew to cut away enough of the car's twisted frame to reach Mac. The time ticks over slowly, every second a lifetime, every minute an eternity. Rain pounds against Harm's head and shoulders. Smoke and steam fill the air. People shout. Scream. Cry. Somewhere a dog barks. But all Harm hears is the roar of heavy equipment and the screech of tearing metal. All he sees is the mangled remains of Mac's car and then the terrifying pallor of her skin when they finally pull her from the wreckage and ease her onto a backboard.

Her hair is matted with blood and dripping with rain water. Her left arm rests at an unnatural angle he's seen before. Dislocated shoulder. It's a painful injury, but a straightforward one.

It's what he can't see that worries him.

Moments later they're lifting her into a MedSTAR chopper. They're taking her away, and all he can think is that she could die without him holding her hand, without him telling her how much he loves her ... She could die in the company of strangers. Fresh adrenaline surges through him at the thought, and he struggles against his captors' hold.

"You can't go with her." It's the officer on Harm's left. His fierce grip will probably leave bruises, but there's compassion in his voice. "There's no room, and those cuts don't look life threatening."

It's the first time Harm thinks about his own injuries—the cuts on his hands, the sting of deep scrapes across his back and shoulders, the ache of strained muscles in his neck. He looks down. Reddened and soggy gauze peeks out between his fisted fingers. He doesn't know who gave it to him.

With a jerk of his chin, the officer indicates a waiting ambulance. When did it get here? And how long have the doors been open in this rain? "You'll go with them."

They walk him over. Inside, an EMT glances at his hands and reaches for a fresh roll of gauze. It isn't until the doors close and the siren comes to life that Harm comes out of his shock enough to remember.

The MedSTAR crew is missing a crucial piece of information.

"Wait!" He struggles to his feet. He's reaching for the door when the paramedic, a wiry kid not much more than twenty, wrestles him back down. "Wait! I have to tell them something!"

"We're underway, sir! You can't get out now."

"Radio ahead." Fresh fear floods through him. "Tell them ..." He pauses. Swallows. "Tell them my wife is pregnant."

The EMT fires questions at him while he wraps Harm's hands. Most are about Mac, the answers passed on to the chopper crew in a kind of medical shorthand that means little to Harm. The rest of the trip passes in a blur. Harm takes his unseeing gaze off the window just once - when the EMT cuts away the ragged remains of his shirt.

"Looks like you took half the skin off your back." Tearing open a fresh package of antiseptic wipes, he dabs at the scrapes. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Harm shakes his head. He can't explain, nor does he care to try. Instead he concentrates on Mac—on the way she looks when he tells her he loves her, the way it feels to hold her in his arms, and the way she has always, _always_, been there for him.

And now, when it really counts, he can't do a damned thing for her. He aches with the knowledge. He should be holding her hand, talking to her, urging her to hang on while the doctors do their work.

If only they'd left the hotel a little earlier. They'd be on a plane right now. She'd be reading a book and he'd be going over a case, the armrest between them pushed out of the way to give them a few extra inches of space. He'd have his legs stretched into the aisle because there was never enough room between rows, and she'd shake her head at him when the flight attendant told him he was in the way of the beverage cart and could he please move his feet? Or maybe she'd doze off like she sometimes did these days. Her head would settle on his shoulder and he'd have to rescue her book before it slid to the floor. Then he'd take her hand in his and rest his cheek against her hair and let his own eyes close.

The siren cuts off, thrusting Harm back into the nightmare. The ambulance doors swing open, and he blinks against an unexpected flood of sunlight. The summer storm, as brief as it was fierce, has apparently moved on.

The emergency room is crowded. Cold, wet, and disoriented, he swivels his head left, right, left again, struggling to find his balance on a pitching deck. Someone says his name, and he finds himself following a set of pale blue scrubs down the hall. The scrubs have little black airplanes on them. He ponders that—why airplanes? Shouldn't it be stethoscopes or syringes or something?—while the nurse helps him onto the exam table. Mac would like the airplanes. She'd say it was karma.

"A doctor will be with you shortly." Somehow she manages to sound both cheerful and soothing. She finishes checking his blood pressure and jots something down on her clipboard.

"Wait!"

Already on her way out the door, the nurse turns, a question in her eyes.

"My wife. MedSTAR brought her in ahead of me. I need to know what's going on."

The nurse, Paula according to her nametag, nods. The airplanes on her sleeve take flight as she lifts her clipboard and takes out a pen. "What's her name?"

"Mac—" He shakes his head. "I mean Sarah. Sarah Rabb." Two years of marriage and he still isn't used to saying it. To him she'll always be Mac.

"Did she have ID?"

"I don't know." He shrugs, at a loss. "She's slim. 5'7". Brown hair and eyes. She's wearing a—" He searches his memory. Those last moments at the hotel seem so far away. "A blue shirt. And jeans." Snug jeans. Crisp and new. And the shirt had an enticing v-neck that kept drawing his attention away from their conversation. "I gave the EMT her name on the ride in." He can still feel the curve of her hips against his palms, still see the challenge in her eyes. He can't remember what they were talking about, but he remembers that look.

Paula nods and makes a note on her clipboard. "I'll see what I can find out."

"Thank you."

No sooner does Paula leave than another woman takes her place. Business clothes this time. She has short, close-cropped hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and an ominous nest of papers pinned to a worn clipboard. There's an air of forced friendliness about her that raises the hackles at the back of Harm's neck.

"Let's get this paperwork out of the way, shall we?" Then, with a glance at Harm's hands and a slight frown, "Maybe you should let me do the writing."

She pulls up a stool and sits, pencil-thin eyebrows raised inquisitively. "Full name?"

"I'll tell you whatever you want to know," he says, "just as soon as I find my wife." He starts to get to his feet, then swallows a frustrated oath when the woman calmly positions herself between him and the door.

"Paula's checking on that for you." The woman shifts closer, head tilted to one side, a determined glint in her eyes. "Now. Name?"

By the time a doctor finally shows up Harm is about ready to jump out of his skin.

The doc introduces himself as Jeremy Bates, settles onto the newly vacated stool, and looks at Harm's hands. "They're all talking about you out there," he says. "Apparently you tried to rip the windshield out of your wife's car with your bare hands." He shakes his head. "They can't decide if that makes you a hero or a fool."

Though he really doesn't care, Harm asks anyway. "What do _you_ think?"

Doctor Bates finishes unwrapping Harm's left hand and gives a long, low whistle. "Well," he says thoughtfully, "I think it means you love your wife." He examines the cuts. "It looks like you're going to need three sets of stitches on this one. He points. "Here, here and here. Ever had stitches before?"

"Once or twice."

"Right then. You know how this works. A little local anesthetic, a little needle and thread, and that's that. Let's see your other hand. Might as well have all the bad news at once."

There are a few moments of silence followed by Harm's quiet hiss as the last of the gauze pulls away from his torn skin.

"Okay. Just two sets of stitches here, but you came damn near to slicing your thumb off." He gestures at a wide cut that digs deep into the webbing between Harm's thumb and first finger. "Can you move your thumb?"

Harm does, and the doctor nods in satisfaction. "Missed the tendon. That's a lucky break."

"Doesn't feel lucky to me." It takes every bit of self-control Harm can muster to sit still. "Just do what you have to do, Doc. I need to find my wife."

"I imagine you do. Right, then. Let's get this over with."

The stitches seem to take forever. Doctor Bates talks the whole time he works. Does anything else hurt? Any dizziness? Headache? Stomach pain? Vision problems? After he finishes stitching and wrapping Harm's hands, he bandages his back, palpates his abdomen, shines a light in his eyes, and pronounces himself satisfied. He writes out a prescription for painkillers, warns Harm that he's going to be sore for a few days, gives him a lecture about wound care, hands him a worn cotton gown to replace the shredded shirt, and finally, _finally_, sets him free with a jovial "Right then, you're good to go," that sets Harm's teeth on edge.

He beelines to the nursing station, shoving the paperwork into his pocket as he goes. He'll worry about the soggy prescription later. Paula's at the desk, dark head bent over a chart. "My wife?"

She looks up. He sees recognition in her eyes. "I'll see if she's in the system yet."

There's another interminable wait while Paula's fingers fly over the keyboard. Then a nod.

"She's in surgery. That way." She points. "And to the right. Just follow the signs. One of the nurses on the unit can give you more information."

He's already moving away. A low-voiced feminine conversation follows him down the hall.

"He's gonna scare the crap out of the surgical staff."

"Doubt it. Underneath all that grime, he's hot."

A third voice chimes in doubtfully over the ring of a telephone. "How can you tell?"

At any other time, the discussion would amuse Harm. He'd tell Mac about it and she'd laugh. She'd tell him he was too tall to be hot, or his shoulders were too broad, or he was too much of a smart-ass. He'd give her a threatening glare, but that would only make her laugh again. Then she'd lean in close, give him a sultry smile, and tell him he was welcome to try to change her mind when they got home.

He shakes his head as the second woman's last words reach his ears.

"His wife is a lucky woman."

No, he thinks. He's the lucky one.

There's a mural on the wall. It's generically cheerful, the way hospital artwork usually is—a rainbow of hot air balloons suspended in a brilliant blue sky. His gaze lingers on a red and yellow balloon a little apart from the others. He'd ridden in one just like it almost a year ago. Mac had insisted that it would be the perfect way to celebrate his birthday. He'd complained halfheartedly, arguing that he should be allowed to sleep late on his birthday, but Mac had overridden him, and at 0400 on the appointed morning she'd dragged him out of bed and pushed him into the shower.

When the sun rose, painting the sky in glorious shades of red and orange, they were high above the island, drifting east on a tropical breeze.

"Red sky at morning, sailors take warning," he observed with a wry smile. "I told you we shouldn't have come."

She'd been gazing up at the interior of the balloon, watching the play of sunlight on the vibrantly hued fabric, but at his words she snorted and elbowed him in the ribs. "Admit it," she said with a teasing smile. "You love it."

Her eyes sparkled with mischief, her skin glowed in the early morning sun, and love hit him the way it still did sometimes, sucker-punch style, making his chest go tight with the effort just to breathe. He pulled her close.

"You're right," he said. "I do love it." Bending his head, he gave her a gentle kiss. "Thank you."

They'd finished out the ride with Mac tucked into the crook of his arm, her head resting against his shoulder, her body nestled into his.

He hadn't wanted it to end.

An elevator pings nearby. Harm pushes the memory away and rounds the corner to the nursing station.

"I'm looking for my wife," he says. "Sarah Rabb. MedSTAR brought her in about an hour ago."

One of the nurses picks up a chart, glances over it, and nods. "She's in surgery," he says. "If you'd like to wait in the lounge I'll get somebody to come and talk to you."

Harm doesn't want to wait in the lounge. He doesn't want to wait at all. But he's been through this often enough to know he doesn't have a choice.

"Where can I get some coffee?"

"Vending machine at the end of the hall. Cafeteria—" The nurse pulls out a photocopied map. Points. "—is here."

"Thank you."

Five minutes later he's pacing the corridor, coffee carefully balanced in one gauze-covered hand. He scans the hallway. Every door that opens, every squeak of shoe-leather, every whine from a rubber-wheeled cart attracts intense scrutiny. It's exhausting, and it isn't long before Harm drops the untouched coffee in a garbage can and reaches for his cell phone, relieved to find that it still works despite the accident and his still wet jeans.

"Roberts." The voice on the other end of the line is reassuringly familiar.

"Bud. It's Harm."

"Captain!" There's no mistaking Bud's pleased surprise. "I thought you'd be halfway back to Hawaii by now."

"We were supposed to be." Harm swallows hard against a sudden terrible tightness in his throat. "Bud, we're at Washington Center."

There's a brief, heavy pause. "Is everything all right, sir?"

"Mac and I got sucked into a pileup on the beltway. Some idiot cut off an eighteen wheeler at eighty miles an hour. Turned the highway into a fucking fur ball."

Though Harm isn't exactly a Boy Scout, it's a word he rarely uses, and the fact that he does so now stuns Bud into temporary silence.

Then ... "Are you okay?"

"Few cuts and bruises. I'll be fine."

"What about Colonel MacKenzie?"

"I don't know yet. They brought her in on MedSTAR. She's in surgery now." He hesitates, takes a breath. "She rolled, Bud. They had to use the Jaws of Life to get her out."

"Oh my God."

It's almost too much. Harm clenches his jaw and forces himself to take a long, slow breath. He won't break. He can't. He has to hold it together for Mac and the baby.

Bud's voice seems far away. "How can I help?"

Sometimes there's refuge in the mundane. "Would you see if you can find out what they did with our cars? With everything that was going on, I didn't even think about it, and we need our briefcases and luggage. You should be able to get SATO to help you sort it all out. If you run into trouble, just give me a call on my cell."

"I'll see what I can find out, sir. Is there anything else?"

"Not yet, but I appreciate the offer."

"And you said you're at Washington Center?"

"Right."

"Why not Bethesda?"

"Washington was closer, and they needed MedSTAR for Mac."

A nurse taps him on the shoulder, gestures to his cell phone, and shakes her head, pointing to a sign on the wall. "Cell phone use prohibited in Surgery and Trauma Care"

"I understand," Bud says, "I'll see what I can find out and call you back."

"Thanks."

With an apologetic shrug at the nurse Harm switches his phone to vibrate and slides it back into his pocket. She turns away, and he goes back to pacing the floors. He needs to call Mattie and his mother. Their CO's, too. Hell, notifying them is probably the first thing he should have done. But it'll wait. He isn't leaving the area until he gets some answers.

When he makes the turn at the far end of the corridor he sees a father pushing a stroller toward him. A little boy—two? three?—with an unruly mop of dark hair and bright, curious eyes kicks his legs against the footrest. He's wearing a red shirt with the words "I'm the Big Brother" emblazoned across the front, and in his right hand he holds a small, plastic airplane. As his father pushes him down the hall the boy makes long sweeping passes with the toy, his small voice doing its level best to imitate the sound of the propeller.

On their first anniversary he and Mac had taken ten days leave and come back to get Sarah out of storage. He'd checked her out and tuned her up, and they'd hopscotched her across the continent together, landing at small, out of the way airfields and sleeping in rented cabins, bed and breakfasts, and once in an empty corn field under a full moon.

One of the places they'd landed, a small town somewhere in Kansas, was in the middle of their annual county fair when he and Mac arrived. He loved country fairs with their giant vegetables and rickety circus rides, but when he asked Mac about it, she tried to beg off.

"Come on, Mac. It'll be fun."

"Stale popcorn, greasy hot dogs, and smelly farm animals. No way."

"Where's your sense of adventure?" He caught her hand in his and tugged her along, laughing when she dragged her feet. "We have to at least ride the Ferris wheel."

"The last Ferris wheel I rode was so rusty it wobbled. That isn't adventure, Harm. It's a death wish."

"You chicken?"

That did it. Nothing got Mac riled up faster than an attack on her courage. Half an hour later they were sharing cotton candy and waiting for their turn on the ancient Ferris wheel. Mac swallowed, licked her lips, and bumped her hip against his.

"If this thing kills us," she said, "it'll be your fault."

"If this thing kills us we'll be dead, and it won't matter whose fault it was."

"Smart ass."

"Wimp."

With a roll of her eyes, she stepped up to the gate and handed the attendant their tickets, her shoulders lifting in a fatalistic shrug.

"I'm holding you responsible for whatever happens up there," she said when they were seated, the gate locked behind them.

"Whatever happens?" he asked, eyebrow raised.

She nodded firmly. "Whatever happens."

When they inevitably got stopped at the top she gave him her best "I told you so" look. He laughed, kissed her and asked her if she thought the lights spread out below them looked like stars. She snorted and called him a sap, but she kissed him back anyway.

Then she told him she wanted to have a baby.

"I thought that was why we weren't using birth control."

"No," she said gravely. "I mean I want to start fertility treatments."

He looked at her for a long, serious moment, kissed her again, and nodded. "Okay."

She'd left him on the California coast, preferring a four hour flight on a commercial jet to sixteen hours in an antique biplane. When he'd staggered into Honolulu eighteen hours later, bleary eyed and triumphant, she'd been waiting for him at the airport. He'd gathered her close and inhaled the fresh clean scent of her hair and thought that nothing could ever be as incredible as that moment.

Nothing, he thinks now, except knowing that she's going to be okay.

He makes another turn and heads back down the hall just in time to see a doctor emerge from the surgery wing. Still in scrubs, her mask hanging around her neck, the woman looks tired. He's afraid to guess what that means.

She approaches the nursing station. There's a brief, whispered conversation, and then she's coming his way. He refuses to think it could be bad news, but he braces himself anyway—back to the wall, feet spread wide. Please God. Let her be okay.

"Mr. Rabb?"

He swallows and summons a nod.

She gestures to a door on Harm's left. "Why don't we step in here."

Harm finds neither her tone nor her words encouraging. He steps to the side, pushes the door open, and gestures for her to precede him.

She waits for the door to close before speaking.

"I'm Doctor Carmichael," she says, offering her hand. "I'm a member of your wife's trauma team."

He accepts the offered handshake and waits for her to go on.

"Your wife's a fighter, Mr. Rabb."

"Yes, she is. And it's Captain. Captain Harmon Rabb, Jr."

Respect blooms in her eyes. "Understood."

"How's Mac?"

"I won't lie to you, Captain. She's in rough shape. She has a concussion, a dislocated shoulder, and an assortment of cuts and bruises. But it's the internal injuries that worry me."

"And those are?"

"She broke a rib in the accident. Ordinarily it's a fairly straightforward injury, but this rib punctured your wife's right lung. She's holding her own for now, but it'll be touch and go for the next twenty-four hours."

"She's going to be okay, though, right?"

It seems like an eternity passes before the doctor answers.

"Barring complications, she should make a full recovery."

Harm allows himself a brief, heartfelt prayer of gratitude. "And the baby?"

Carmichael's sigh is long and deep. "First let me say that it's a damned good thing you let us know she was pregnant before she got here. If we'd gone in blind, she probably would have miscarried."

"And now... ?"

The doctor's expression, already serious, turns grave. "Now I'd say we have about a twenty percent chance of saving the pregnancy." The stethoscope that hangs around her neck catches a random beam of light and reflects it into Harm's eyes. "Your wife has the best possible care, Captain Rabb. There's a top-notch team of specialists with her, and you can be assured that they're doing everything in their power to preserve the pregnancy." Her expression grim, Dr. Carmichael shakes her head. "But at fourteen weeks your wife is barely out of her first trimester. And at her age, and with her medical history, it's a high risk pregnancy even without the accident." There's a kind of guarded distance in her voice when she continues. "You should prepare yourself for the worst."

It's devastating news, and it hits him with the force of a ramp strike. He fights both tears and a simultaneous urge to slam his fist into the wall.

"When can I see her?"

Carmichael glances at her watch. "She'll be in surgery for at least another hour and in ICU after that. Why don't you go home, change into some dry clothes, and try to get some sleep."

"I'm not going anywhere."

Her gaze narrows. She blows out a sigh. "Why doesn't that surprise me." She looks him over, taking in his soggy and bedraggled appearance with clinical detachment. "I'll see if the nurses can scare up a set of scrubs for you. I don't need another patient today."

"Thank you, Doctor."

"You're welcome." She glances back at him, one hand on the door. "Chapel's on the second floor, Captain. You might try prayer."

And with that she's gone, leaving him standing alone in the empty room.

The chapel is small and unassuming. A simple wooden podium serves double duty as an altar. It's flanked on either side by tables that hold tiers of tea candles, each in its own glass globe. Thick red carpeting muffles sound, and stained glass windows bathe the room with filtered sunlight. Harm lights two more candles, one for Mac and another for their unborn child. His hand trembles as he sets them in place. Finished, he backs up until his legs bump against a chair, then sinks into it like a deflating balloon. He lowers his head. _Don't give up, Mac. Don't ever give up._

She isn't a quitter. She's strong. And she knows her own mind as well as he knows his. It's a fact that hasn't always meant smooth sailing between them, but no matter how tough things have been at times, he's never regretted marrying her—because in the end he always circles back to one simple truth. He loves her more than he loves his own life.

He still remembers their first serious argument. Mac had been dropping hints about Mattie for weeks, and after the doctors had given their final all-clear, she'd grown progressively more insistent— and he'd reacted by digging in his heels.

"You have to get her in the air, Harm. You can't keep postponing it."

"She isn't ready yet."

"The doctors cleared her six weeks ago. How much more ready does she need to be?"

"This isn't about mobility, Mac. If she doesn't have her head in it ..."

"You think she'll crash the plane?"

He shook his head. "I'd never let that happen."

"Then what are you so afraid of?"

"Nothing! When she says she wants to go, I'll take her up myself."

"If you leave it up to her the time will never be right. You know that as well as I do."

"What do you know about it, Mac? Did you trade in your law degree for a psychiatrist's license when I wasn't looking?"

He saw the sting of that in her eyes, but it was too late to take it back.

"I don't need a medical degree to know what fear can do to you. You know it, too. Remember how you felt that first time back up with Skates?"

"That was different."

"It was the same damned thing. You knew you had to push past it or give up flying altogether. Why are the rules any different for Mattie?"

"She isn't ready," he insisted stubbornly.

"Damn it, Harm! Would you listen to yourself? Stop enabling her!"

He rounded on her, furious. "How is any of this your business, anyway? Mattie's _my_ problem. _My_ responsibility. Not yours!"

She stared at him, eyes wide with shock and pain. Then, spinning on her heel, she stormed out of the house, leaving him staring after her and feeling like the world's worst husband. He'd been stupid. And wrong. He knew that. But it still took almost an hour for him to get past his pride and go after her.

He found her on the beach. She'd been running. Her shirt was sweat soaked, and tendrils of hair were plastered to her forehead. When she saw him coming she turned away and started in the opposite direction, lengthening her stride. He hurried to catch up.

"Mac, wait!"

"I don't want to talk to you right now, Harm." Her voice was hoarse. Labored. She glanced back at him, and he saw the remnants of tears on her cheeks.

"So you're going to run away?"

"For now."

"Mac ..." He caught her elbow, thinking to stop her, but she twisted and lashed out, and only an instinctive step back kept her fist from slamming into his jaw. There was fury in her eyes, and pride. But he saw the hurt, too, and he wanted to kick himself for putting it there.

She lowered her hands and faced him head on, legs spread, shoulders back—a fighting stance. "Leave me alone."

He wanted to gather her into his arms and beg her forgiveness, but he valued his skin too much to try. Words would have to do. He lifted his own hands toward her, palms up, fingers outspread.

"Look. I'm sorry. I was out of line."

He didn't try to excuse what he'd said, or to justify it. He had been wrong—about Mac's role in Mattie's life at the very least. And maybe about the flying, too, though he was still mulling that part over.

When she didn't immediately take flight, Harm took it as a good sign. If he was lucky she would stay long enough to hear him out.

"Do you remember," he asked, "about six months into Mattie's rehab? She hit a wall, and she just wasn't getting any better. She was frustrated and depressed, and the doctors warned us that unless her attitude changed she might never get past it."

She blinked, obviously confused by the sudden change of subject. "What about it?"

"There was this one day ... It was before we were married. You were visiting us in London, and I got held up in court. I was later than usual getting to the rehab center to see Mattie, but they knew me so well by then that they let me in anyway. She was in her room." He smiled, remembering. "And she was happier than I'd seen her in weeks." She'd looked up from the book she was reading with a bright smile and that sassy look in her eyes that he'd been half afraid he'd never see again. "Turned out you'd spent some time with her earlier that afternoon."

He tucked a wisp of damp hair behind Mac's ear. "You gave her a pedicure," he said softly. "And you told her that as soon as the doctors said it was okay the two of you would have a girls' day out." He shook his head. "Shoe shopping, as I recall."

"You were working," Mac said with a self-conscious shrug. "And I didn't want to do the tourist thing without you, so I decided to hang out with Mattie. It wasn't a big deal."

"I disagree," Harm said. "It was a very big deal." A dog dashed past them and snatched a Frisbee out of the air, trotting off with its head held high. Behind him, Harm heard a squeal of childish laughter followed by a man's deep voice. "After that day, her whole attitude changed. She started working hard, pushing herself ..."

"I love her, Harm." Mac's voice was choked. "Just as much as you do."

"I know that."

"I only want what's best for her."

"I know that, too."

"Then why did you say—"

"Maybe," he interrupted, not quite meeting her gaze, "because sometimes I think you're better at this parenting thing than I am."

"But you're a fantastic father."

Smiling faintly, he lifted an eyebrow. "You think so?"

Her lips quirked. "Stop fishing." She moved in front of him and pressed her hand flat against his chest, fingers splayed wide. "And stop competing with me. We're a team now, remember?"

He shrugged. "Habit."

"Break it."

Sliding his fingers into her hair, he turned her face up to his. "Forgive me?"

"That depends."

"On?"

She tilted her head, a determined glint in her eyes. "When are you taking her up?"

He couldn't resist smiling at her as he shook his head in defeat. "How does your Saturday look?"

"I think I could squeeze in a stop at the airport."

"Saturday it is." He ignored the twinge of unease in his stomach and lowered his head to give her a gentle kiss. She was right. Putting it off wasn't doing anybody any good.

Mattie threw up a dozen road blocks, but he and Mac stood firm. He hadn't moved Sarah to Hawaii yet, so when Saturday came he rented a plane for the big event—and he pretended not to see the tremor in Mattie's hands when she climbed in. Mac waved them off with a bright smile and a cheerful thumbs up, and as they lifted into the air he knew Mac had been right.

By the time they landed Mattie had turned another corner on the long road to recovery. She chattered excitedly about Harm's acrobatics, making Mac roll her eyes at both of them. She also asked a hundred questions, wanted to know when she could go back to flight school, and begged Harm to bring Sarah to Hawaii so they could fly more often.

Later that night he tried to thank Mac, but she brushed him off.

"You would've gotten her in the air eventually."

"Maybe."

She propped herself on her elbow beside him and let the sheet slide from her bare shoulders as she leaned in to kiss his jaw. "Definitely."

Slipping an arm around her waist, he pulled her down against his chest. "Do you really want to argue about this again?" He shifted his hand to the sweet spot just below her breast and watched her eyes darken. His thumb stroked the soft skin once. Again. "Because I'm pretty sure I can think of better ways to spend the evening."

Mac arched her back with a hum of pleasure. "Are you trying to change the subject, Captain?"

He shifted his other hand to her hip and gave her a slow smile. "Are you complaining, Colonel?"

"Not at all." Her lips blazed a trail across his chest. "What did you have in mind?"

"Oh, I don't know ..." Sliding his fingers into her hair he brought her head up. "A little of this—" He kissed her, drawing a low moan from her throat. Then he shifted, rolling her down to the mattress, and nibbled a path along her jaw to her ear. "A little of that ..."

A week later, Mattie had been back in flight school, and a week after that he and Mac had been at the doctor's office, scheduling her second laparoscopy.

Only this time she hadn't been alone when she came out of the anesthesia, and when the doctor came in to give them the results, he'd been there to hold her hand.

To hold her hand then, he remembers, and to hold her in his arms that night while she cried.

A light touch on his shoulder makes him jump. He'd been so lost in the past that he hadn't sensed the arrival of company. He looks up expecting it to be Bud, then gets to his feet when he realizes his mistake.

"Admiral!"

Chegwidden shakes his head. "When are you going to get it through that thick skull of yours that I'm retired?" But his eyes are kind, and he gives Harm's shoulder a quick, light squeeze.

"Probably never, sir."

"It's A.J., Harm. Just plain old A.J." He sits down and stretches his legs out in front of him.

"There'll never be anything plain or old about you, sir."

That draws a short chuckle. "I appreciate the vote of confidence." The admiral sobers. "Surprised to see me?"

"A little, yes."

"Bud called. Seems he's got some kind of errand to run, and he doesn't think you should have to sit up here all alone."

Trust Bud. Harm swallows the sudden lump in his throat. "That sounds like something he'd do."

"Yes it does." The admiral's gaze strays toward the altar and the flickering candles, then back to Harm. "Have you talked with the doctors yet?"

He nods. "About a half hour ago. They're saying she'll be in surgery for another half hour and ICU after that."

"How bad is it?"

"It's ..." He remembers Carmichael's words. _Barring complications_. The phrase has an ominous ring. "Apparently she broke a rib in the accident. Punctured a lung."

"Damn." There's a wealth of emotion in the single quiet syllable. "She's going to pull through though, right?"

"Absolutely." Harm won't—can't—consider any other possibility. "But there's something else." Something they've only shared with Mattie and his parents. But he needs to talk, and he knows he can trust the admiral. "Sir ... Mac is pregnant."

He watches the emotions play across the admiral's face. Sees when it all sinks in.

"Is the baby okay?"

"For now, but the odds aren't good. They're giving the pregnancy a one in five chance." It hurts to say it aloud, and Harm looks away, unable to bear the sympathy in the admiral's eyes.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Not half as sorry as I am."

A candle flickers and goes out. It isn't one of Harm's, but he moves to relight it anyway.

"This probably won't help," the admiral says quietly. "Hell, it's going to sound damned insensitive. But the important thing is to get Mac through this so the two of you can try again."

"That's the real hell of it all, sir." Setting the candle back in place, Harm turns around. "This was pretty much our last hurrah on that front."

"I don't understand."

He hesitates, wondering how much to say. "Sir ... Mac has some health issues."

"What kind of health issues?" Despite the sharpness of his tone, the admiral's gaze holds nothing but concern.

"The kind that make having a baby the traditional way something of a pipe dream."

"But she did get pregnant."

"Yes, sir. But only after two surgeries, some pretty intense pharmaceutical intervention, and a minor medical miracle. To be honest, we'd almost given up."

"So if she loses this baby ..."

Harm shakes his head. "We probably won't get another chance." His voice scrapes against the inside of his throat. "And I'm afraid of what that could do to her."

Inside the chapel it's quiet, but he can still hear the P.A. system in the hallway. It crackles out a doctor's name. A room number. A code. And suddenly the cool air feels thick and stuffy. The smell of burning candles, comforting before, is abruptly suffocating. And the dark, wood-paneled walls feel as if they're closing in on him. It's too much. He has to get away, has to escape the ghosts of other people's desperate prayers and broken dreams.

"If you'll excuse me, Admiral, I need to check in with the nurses."

"Sure. Go ahead."

He almost mows down an unsuspecting volunteer in the hallway. She's young, not more than fifteen, her black hair tied back in a bow. She has a plastic bag with the hospital logo in her hand.

"Sorry," he says brusquely. "I didn't see you there."

"No problem."

He starts to move past her.

"Are you Captain Rabb?"

Turning back, he nods. She pushes the bag toward him. "Dr. Carmichael asked me to give these to you. She said to tell you they might be a little big, but at least they're dry."

He accepts the bag and thanks her. A quick look reveals the expected set of green scrubs. "Where can I change?"

"Go left at the end of the hall. Men's room is on the right."

From somewhere deep down he finds the strength to offer a strained smile. "Please tell Dr. Carmichael I said thank you and that I'll make sure she gets these back."

"Okay."

He fights the urge to break into a run as he starts down the hallway, but the need to be alone nearly overwhelms his sense of decorum.

The bathroom is blessedly empty. He drops the clothing on the corner of the sink and presses his palms against the ceramic tile, then winces and snatches them back again as a wave of throbbing pain reminds him of his stitches. When the ache subsides, he lifts his eyes to the mirror.

He almost doesn't recognize himself. His face is pale, his eyes sunken and shadowed. Grease and dried blood are smeared across his cheeks and forehead, and his hair is a mess. The last time he'd been this grimy had been after he'd spent an afternoon working on Mac's Acura. When he'd come inside at the end of the day she'd asked if he'd been training with the SEALs.

The bandages make it hard to wash, but he does the best he can, ducking his head under the faucet and using bits of paper towel to scrub at the worst of the dirt. He dries off with the cotton hospital gown and makes a stab at smoothing his hair with the tips of two unbandaged fingers. The cotton scrubs are worn and soft, and he wonders who they belong to as he pulls them on. As predicted they're a little big, but he tightens the drawstring and folds up the cuffs and counts himself done. A final glance in the mirror confirms that he's marginally more acceptable, though he still looks drawn and tired.

He stuffs his wet jeans into the empty bag along with the damp hospital gown. As he turns to throw away the used towels he catches another glimpse of himself in the mirror, and for a split second he imagines he can feel the touch of Mac's hands against his face, hear the sound of her voice in his ear. His throat closes, and his chest goes tight. Pressing his back to the reassuring solidity of the tile wall he waits for his breath to steady. Then he pushes through the door and heads downstairs to check on Mac.

There's a small knot of people in the hallway outside the waiting room. It takes Harm a second to realize that he knows them all. The admiral's there, of course. And Bud has arrived. But he sees Harriet, too. Even Sturgis, to whom he's spoken fewer than half a dozen times since he and Mac left DC, has come to show his support.

But he's less pleased to see Gregory Vukovic. He knows that Mac neither trusts nor likes the younger attorney who, she says, is ambitious, unscrupulous, and arrogant. Having firsthand experience with both the ambition and the arrogance, Harm suspects Vukovic's presence is more about appearances than actual concern.

The thought triggers a flash of anger. He doesn't care about himself, but nobody uses his wife as a stepping stone. He strides over, not stopping until Vukovic takes a step back.

"Captain Rabb." There's a hint of uncertainty in Vukovic's voice. He takes another half step back.

"Lieutenant." It comes out colder than Harm had intended, but he doesn't apologize.

"I heard about the colonel." Vukovic's gaze flickers from Harm to the rest of the group, then back again. "Have you talked to her doctors yet?"

"Why are you here, Lieutenant?" Harm's voice is soft, but tight. Part of him wants to believe Vukovic is telling the truth. But another part—the part that's furious at the world for letting this happen to Mac—hopes he isn't.

Vukovic blinks, taken aback. "Well, I ... I wanted to make sure Colonel MacKenzie was okay."

But there's something about Vukovic's stance that doesn't ring true, and he refuses to meet Harm's eyes.

"You're lying."

"Captain ..."

Ignoring the warning in the admiral's tone, Harm plows ahead. "Let me tell you why you're here, Lieutenant Vukovic." He takes another step forward, deliberately invading the younger man's personal space. "You're here because you think it'll make you look good. You're here," he grinds out, fury making his pulse pound in his ears, "because Mac has powerful friends—friends who will be concerned about her. Friends who might take note of your presence and remember it at the next promotion board."

"You're wrong, Captain." To his credit, Vukovic doesn't back down. "I'm here out of respect and concern for a fellow officer."

"Bullshit."

"That's enough, Captain." Harm knows that tone. His gaze flickers to his former CO, but Chegwidden isn't his boss anymore. He turns back to Vukovic.

"I want you out of here, Lieutenant."

"Hospitals are public places," Vukovic says tightly. "You have no right—"

In an instant, Harm has him against the wall, his forearm pressed hard against Vukovic's chest. He senses somebody moving in behind him and shoots a quelling look over his shoulder. Sturgis backs off.

"When it comes to Mac—" His tone is low and dangerous, heavy with warning. "I have _every_ right." He releases his grip abruptly. Vukovic stumbles a little, rights himself, and straightens.

"I'm filing a complaint," he says, in a voice that's more wounded pride than righteous anger. "I'll have you up on an Article 32 in a week."

"No." It's the admiral. He steps between Harm and Vukovic. "You won't. And I'd suggest you get out of here before one of these fine lawyers—" he glances toward Sturgis and Bud, "has to defend you against a charge of disrespecting a senior officer."

Vukovic starts to say something, then reconsiders. He gives a brief, sharp nod, spins on his heel, and leaves. Despite himself Harm has to respect the fact that he keeps his head up and shoulders back as he stalks off.

"I apologize, sir." Still watching Vukovic's retreat, Harm addresses the words to his former CO. "That was out of line."

Admiral Chegwidden gives a short, sharp nod and takes the plastic bag out of Harm's hand. "Go check on your wife, Captain."

"Yes, sir."

The woman on duty at the nursing station is the same one who'd made him put his cell phone away earlier. At his approach she looks up from her work, her lips thinning a little when she sees who it is.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm Harmon Rabb. Has my wife come out of surgery yet?"

Her expression softens as she makes the connection between patient and family member. "Actually, we were just about to send somebody to find you. They're getting her settled in the SICU now. You should be able to see her in a few minutes."

"SICU?"

"Surgical Intensive Care."

Harm gets directions, thanks her, and goes to update the others.

At his approach the admiral looks up from a steaming cup of coffee, his gaze intense, questioning. Bud puts his arm around Harriet's shoulders, and Sturgis closes a dog-eared magazine and sets it aside. There's no sign of Vukovic.

"Mac's out of surgery. They're setting her up in ICU now." Harm's voice sounds strange and a little raspy. He clears his throat.

It's Bud who asks the question they're all probably thinking. "So she's going to be okay, sir?"

"I hope so, Bud." He doesn't mention the baby. "I'll know more after I talk with her doctors." Harriet leans into Bud's support, and Harm realizes suddenly that this is almost as hard for his friends as it is for him. "Listen," he says, searching for a way to ease their burden. "I appreciate all of you coming out, but there's really nothing you can do here. Go home. Get some rest. I promise I'll call if there's any news."

"You don't really think we'd leave you here alone, do you, sir?" There's a glint in Harriet's eye that he's seen before. She's made up her mind, and getting her to change it would be like trying to get the sun not to rise. "We aren't going anywhere until we know you and the colonel are okay."

Harm doesn't trust himself to respond. He settles for a single short nod, and turns away.

The curtained cubicles and looming banks of machines in the SICU are enough like those he's seen in other hospitals that Harm experiences a momentary flash of déjà vu. He thinks about Bud, and Mattie, and his own experience after that horrific punch out over the Atlantic. There's no privacy in an ICU, and very little dignity, but the medical care is outstanding. If today's accident had to happen, he's glad it happened here instead of in some backwater town in the middle of nowhere.

After explaining the equipment in the room and what it's doing, the nurse leaves him at Mac's bedside with a stern look and five raised fingers. He doesn't notice when she walks away. The only thing he notices, the only thing he cares about, is Mac. She's bruised and battered, her left arm in a sling, her face almost hidden behind the breathing apparatus, and her slim body all but dwarfed by the array of tubes and machinery that's both keeping her alive and monitoring every aspect of her condition.

He could have lost her.

His heart stutters in his chest, and for a second he can't catch his breath.

He could have lost her. And it could've happened in the blink of an eye.

She's lying so still that he glances up at the heart monitor, then back down to watch for the rise and fall of her chest. His fingers move to her wrist, and he doesn't relax until he finds the steady beat of her pulse. Even then he doesn't let go, only eases his grip a little and shifts his gaze to her face. He shakes his head. She won't be happy when she sees those airbag bruises. He'll see the question in her eyes, even though she won't ask it aloud. _Does it look as bad to you as it does to me?_ He'll shake his head, kiss the bridge of her nose (the only spot that isn't bruised), and tell her she's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

And it'll be the truth.

With his free hand he eases a few strands of loose hair back from her forehead, his fingers brushing against fresh gauze at her temple.

"Hey, Ninja Girl." He keeps his voice low. It's a private nickname, and one he uses rarely. He won't risk having it overheard by strangers.

The only response is the steady beep of the heart monitor.

"Mac ...I'm here, sweetheart." He strokes his thumb across the back of her hand. "You're going to be okay. It might take a while, but you're going to come out of this just fine."

One of the pieces of equipment the nurse pointed out to him is a fetal heart monitor. He looks up at the bank of equipment, his eyes searching out the numbers. 145. Well within the normal range.

"The baby's doing fine, too, so you can stop worrying." Because he knows she is. Even unconscious and in pain, her first thought would be for their unborn child. "Just rest, Mac. I'll be here when you wake up." He pauses, takes a breath. "I'll always be here."

He wishes she would open her eyes, if only for a second.

"Do you remember the admiral's retirement party?" he asks her quietly. "You said that men just seem to pass through your life. Except for me." His eyes search out the heart monitors again, first hers, then the baby's. "There were so many things I wanted to say to you that night—that I loved you, that I wanted to be more to you than just your partner or your best friend—but you weren't ready. So I waited. I might still be waiting today if General Cresswell hadn't taken the decision out of my hands." He smiles a little, imagining how their stoic former CO would react to that piece of information. "I suppose we owe him a debt of gratitude, huh?"

Somewhere nearby a monitor emits a loud warning tone. A nurse hurries past.

"You once asked me what I wanted." That night on the admiral's porch seems like another lifetime now, but he still remembers how stunningly beautiful she'd looked in the moonlight. "You were engaged to Brumby and about to be married, so I tried to sidestep the question. But you wouldn't let it go." At the time he'd struggled to define the look in her eyes, but now he knew. It had been hope. "You asked me what I wanted most."

There's a band of lighter skin where her rings should be. He knows it's standard procedure for the medical staff to remove a patient's jewelry, but it still comes as a shock to see her without them.

"The answer is you, Mac." He rubs his thumb over the spot where her wedding band belongs. "It was you then, it's you now ..." There are few things in his life that he considers to be truly immutable. This is one of them. "It'll always be you."

He feels a light touch at his elbow and turns to see a nurse. Her dark eyes are sympathetic. She's holding a plastic bag with the hospital's logo in one hand.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Rabb, but you'll need to go, now."

"When can I come back?"

"In about an hour."

"I'd like to speak with her doctors."

"Dr. Carmichael is with another patient at the moment, but if you'll wait in the hall I'll let her know you need to speak with her."

"That'll be fine. Thank you."

"Your wife's things are in here," she says, handing him the bag. "If you'll stop by the desk for a moment and sign the release form you can take them with you."

When Dr. Carmichael comes to find him a few minutes later she looks harried, but she smiles warmly as she tucks a patient chart under her arm.

"Your wife is doing very well, Captain. She's a strong woman."

"How about the baby?"

"So far so good. We aren't seeing any signs of premature labor, and the fetal heartbeat is stable. But the slightest additional trauma could throw things into a tailspin." A pair of orderlies passes by pushing a gurney, their patient an overweight middle-aged man with pasty skin and thick, loose jowls. Dr. Carmichael waits for the little procession to move on before continuing. "We're going to keep your wife in the ICU a little longer than we ordinarily would in order to keep an eye on things, but right now, everything looks good." She glances at her watch. "Where can we find you if there's any change?"

"Right here."

She nods. "It'll be a while yet before she wakes up. As soon as she does, we'll remove the breathing tube. She'll be sore and groggy, but you should be able to talk to her."

"Thank you, Doctor."

"You're welcome. Listen, I've really got to run. I'll be in touch if there are any new developments." With that she's gone, moving down the hall at a fast clip, her white lab coat billowing out behind her.

Harm opens the plastic bag and looks inside. Nestled between Mac's ruined jeans and shirt he finds a second, smaller bag. Pulling it out, he tips the contents into his hand. Her jewelry. After a quick check for damage, the watch, Marine ring, and earrings go back into the bag, which he tucks safely in his pocket. With her other rings still in his hand, he leans against the wall and closes his eyes, remembering the night they'd gotten engaged.

When everybody had left McMurphy's that night and they were walking out together, he'd made an abrupt decision, pulling her to a stop in the dim light of a street lamp.

She'd given him a puzzled look. "What?"

"Just ... hang on a second." Reaching into his pocket, he fished out the ring and lifted it to the light. She started to say something, but he shook his head and reached for her hand.

"Sarah MacKenzie," he said, amused by her stunned, wide-eyed expression. "Would you do me the honor?"

He slid the ring onto her finger, pleased to discover a near perfect fit. When he looked up again he found her watching him with a look of affectionate disbelief.

"How long have you been carrying that around in your pocket?"

"About six months," he said, with a slight shrug. "It just never seemed like the right time to give it to you."

She looked around. He watched her take in the street light, the bar, the passing traffic.

"And this is?"

"Are you complaining?" He bent his head and kissed her, taking his time about it because he could, deepening the kiss when he sensed her capitulation. When he finally drew back she gave a slow, dazed blink—and then smacked him in the chest when he grinned at her.

"After we're married," she said, "I'm going to have to teach you a thing or two about romance."

He reared back, hands over his heart. "Hey, I can be very romantic."

She snorted, but her eyes were on the ring. She twisted it around her finger with a soft smile.

"It's beautiful." She looked up at him. "You have excellent taste."

"I chose you, didn't I?" He drew her close again and wished the Navy wasn't about to take her away from him.

"You sure took your time about it." But she nestled her head against his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his waist. "I love you, you know."

The soft-spoken words went straight to his heart. "I love you, too."

They'd stood there for a long time. Then he'd kissed her again, softly this time, and they'd parted ways long enough to drive to her apartment—where they'd made love as if they could somehow hold back the dawn.

But of course dawn had come, and with it those long months of separation. By the time they'd landed their respective posts in Hawaii he'd started to think the world was conspiring against them. But then he'd finally put a wedding ring on Mac's finger, and she'd put one on his, and he'd started to hope that maybe, just maybe, they were going to have their dream. They'd settled into their new billets, bought a house, gotten Mattie through rehab and into college ... Hell, they even had a dog. And when Mac had gotten pregnant they'd agreed that their lives were pretty much perfect.

And now this.

He'd come to DC for a seminar. She'd come a week later to take part in a promotions board. During the days they'd been busy with work, but the nights had been special. They'd turned the week into a kind of second honeymoon. And when the time had come to return to Hawaii they'd set off for the airport full of plans for the baby's room and dreams for the future—dreams only slightly tempered by that last conversation.

Harm straightens from the wall with fresh determination. They're going to get through this, and in February they'll be welcoming a new addition to their small family. He refuses to consider any other possibility.

Newly energized, he strides down the hall. He'll give the others a quick update, but then there are phone calls to make. Mattie first. He needs to tell her what's going on and find a way to convince her not to skip class and fly out here. And he needs to call Mom and Frank. Mac is their daughter-in-law, and she's carrying their grandchild.

Bud is waiting for him near the lounge. He looks worried, but then they all do.

"How is she, sir?"

"She's holding her own. They're saying she'll sleep for a while, yet."

"It's probably best." Bud hesitates, his eyes sliding away from Harm's, then back. "Listen. Sir ... I'm sorry."

The apology takes Harm by surprise. "For what?"

"Lieutenant Vukovic. I think it's my fault he was here."

"How do you figure?"

"After you called me I phoned the office to let General Cresswell know what was going on, but he was in a meeting, so I left a message with the new adjutant. I have to assume that he told Lieutenant Vukovic we were here."

"Then the adjutant's at fault. Not you."

"Still, I really am sorry."

"Let it go, Bud. Besides, I doubt the lieutenant will be back."

Bud smiles a little at that. "I'm pretty sure you're right." A volunteer passes, her arms filled with flowers. Half a dozen balloons trail behind her on long white ribbons. "I picked up the briefcases, sir. They're in my van, along with your luggage."

"Thanks, Bud. I appreciate it."

"Sir ... I saw the cars."

With a grimace, Harm shakes his head.

Bud glances pointedly at Harm's bandages. "Did you really try to rip out the colonel's windshield with your bare hands?"

"To be honest Bud, I don't really remember." It isn't true, but Harm's not interested in reliving those terrifying moments under Mac's car. "Come on." He starts down the hall, ending the discussion before Bud can ask any more questions. "Let's go find the others."

Three pairs of eyes snap toward them when he and Bud enter the waiting room. The expressions in them range from worry to hope, and Harm wishes he had something more substantive to share. But there's no change, and all he can do is say that before excusing himself to find a quiet place to call Mattie.

She answers the phone on the second ring, her voice breathless with laughter. It makes him second guess his decision to tell her about Mac, but Mattie would never forgive him for keeping it from her.

"Mattie. It's Harm."

"Hey, Harm." In the background, there's a shout of laughter. Harm hears Mattie yell for quiet. Then she's back. "Aren't you and Mac supposed to be on your way home? Wait. You're using one of those airphones, aren't you. The ones in the backs of the seats? That's so cool!"

"Mattie ... There's been an accident."

She sobers immediately, her voice going sharp and tight. "What kind of accident?"

"We got caught in a pileup on the Beltway."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Mac's going to be okay, too. I just thought you should know since it means we'll be a few days late getting home."

"Mac's going to be okay? What does that mean?"

He chooses his words carefully, aware that he's treading a fine line between alarming her and lying to her.

"She broke a rib, Mattie. They had to do some surgery, but her doctor expects her to make a full recovery. So stop worrying."

This time the silence is longer. Then, slowly, each word loaded with suspicion, "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me, Harm. You know I can always tell when you lie."

"I'm not lying. Mac's going to be just fine."

But Mattie's smart, and wise beyond her years. "What about the baby?"

"The baby's fine, too."

"You said they had to do surgery. Isn't that dangerous?

"Mac's doctors are some of the world's best, Mattie. They're taking good care of her. I promise."

"When are you coming home?"

He keeps his tone light. "I don't know yet, but it'll probably be a few days. The doctors will want to be sure it's safe for Mac to travel."

"I should come out there. You shouldn't be alone."

"I'm not alone. Bud and Harriet are here with me. So are Admiral Chegwidden and Sturgis."

"Captain Turner is there?"

The surprise in her voice isn't entirely unexpected, but he leaves it alone. "Sure is."

"Wow."

"Listen, Mattie, I need to call Mom and Frank, and then I need to check in with Mac's doctors. I'll call you back as soon as I know more."

"You'd better."

He smiles at her stern tone. "And you'd better get to class, young lady."

"It's college, Harm. Nobody cares if you go to class or not."

"_I_ care."

He's pretty sure she's rolling her eyes, but she doesn't argue. "Fine. I'll go to class. But you'd better call me later."

"I will. I promise."

"And Harm?"

"What?"

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

"When you talk to Mac tell her I love her too, will you?"

"You bet."

He ends the call feeling better than he has in hours. Then he takes a breath and hits the speed dial for his mother. He tries not to feel guilty at the relief that washes through him when he gets the answering machine. After leaving a brief, vague message and asking her to call him back when she gets a chance he disconnects.

A quick glance at his watch reveals that it's almost time to see Mac again. He should stop by the lounge and visit with the others for a few minutes, but he doesn't feel much like talking. Besides, there's nothing to say—at least not until Mac wakes up.

The charge nurse tells him there's no change in Mac's condition, reminds him of the five minute rule, and turns back to her work. Harm pulls up a chair beside the bed and takes her hand in his again, but this time he just sits quietly with her. A nurse comes in, checks the IV, jots something down on Mac's chart, and leaves. A doctor passes by on his way to the next cubicle. The ventilator hisses, pauses, hisses again.

A kind of peace settles over Harm. Still holding Mac's hand, he leans in and rests his other hand on the slight rise of her stomach near the heart monitor, completing a three-way connection between him, Mac, and their unborn child. Laying his head on his arm he closes his eyes and lets his mind drift back to the night six weeks ago when he'd come home from work to a dark and silent house.

Mac's car had been in the driveway when he'd arrived, but there'd been no sign of her in the main living area. He'd found fresh produce scattered across the kitchen counter and a half-full grocery sack on the maple-wood island. Ice cream. Not daring to open the carton he'd stashed it in the freezer. Increasingly concerned, he'd made his way to the master bedroom where he'd found her sitting on the bed with an odd, faraway look on her face.

"Mac?"

He was at her side in two strides. He dropped to his knees in front of her and reached for her hands. They were icy cold, and her cheeks were tearstained. "Mac, what's wrong?"

She shook her head, her eyes welling with fresh tears. "Nothing's wrong."

"People don't cry when nothing's wrong. And Marines don't cry, period." At her raised eyebrow he backtracked. A little. "Okay. They don't cry much."

That earned him the faintest hint of a smile. Mac swiped at her cheeks with the back of one hand and took a steadying breath. "The doctor called a few minutes ago."

His heart sank. Another failure. And he'd been certain this would be the time everything went right. Call it instinct. Or wishful thinking. Whatever. The fact remained that he'd been convinced they were finally going to have their miracle.

It had been their last chance, too. Their last shot at the brass ring. They'd agreed that if the pregnancy didn't take this time, they weren't going to try again.

No wonder she looked devastated.

"Mac ... I'm so sorry." He reached up to wipe the tears from her cheeks, his heart breaking.

"Harm—"

"We always knew it would take a miracle." He stifled his own disappointment in the rush to comfort her. "But maybe God has another kind of miracle in mind for us." His thumbs swept across the backs of her knuckles, gentle as the rising sun. "I'll call the lawyer first thing Monday morning, see what he has to say—"

"Harm." She said it with unexpected force, startling him to silence.

"What?"

"I'm pregnant."

It took a minute for the words to register, and even then he thought he'd heard her wrong. "Say that again?"

She did, enunciating each word as if she still didn't quite believe it herself. "I. Am. Pregnant."

He stared at her, stunned. "Really?"

"Really." She broke into a wide smile. "I even have a due date." Laughter danced in her eyes. "February 14th."

Either God had a sense of humor, or he was a hopeless romantic. "Valentine's Day."

"Can you believe it?"

"I think it's going to take me a little while." He kissed her tenderly, then stretched out on the bed beside her. "C'mere."

She did, curling into his arms with a murmur of contentment. He rested his hand on her stomach. She covered it with one of her own.

"Are you happy?" she asked.

Harm pressed a kiss to her forehead, his lips curving into a smile against her skin. "Are you kidding? I'm ecstatic."

"Do you want a boy or girl?"

"Either one, as long as it's healthy."

"Oh, no. You aren't getting off that easily, counselor. As I recall, you said that with my looks and your brains, _he'd_ be perfect."

"And as _I_ recall, _counselor_, you had a pretty snappy comeback of your own."

"Me?" She gave him a look of exaggerated innocence, but her fingers tightened over his, and her eyes sparkled with mischief.

He dropped a kiss on the end of her nose. "If I remember correctly, you said, 'what if _she_ has your looks and my brains?' And I'm pretty sure I told you that would be okay, too." Sobering, he lifted his hand to the curve of her cheek. "How are you feeling?"

"Fantastic."

"No morning sickness?"

"Harm. I'm only six weeks in."

"I've heard that some women have problems from the very beginning."

"Well I'm not one of them."

"Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?"

If she'd asked him just then he probably would've stolen the Hope Diamond for her. But instead she had shaken her head and given him the look she reserved for those times when she thought he was being ridiculous. "Harm. I'm pregnant, not broken."

The words echo in his mind as a light touch on his shoulder snaps him back to the present. The same nurse who'd given him Mac's clothes stands beside him. She taps her watch, and Harm gets to his feet, letting his hand slide reluctantly from Mac's.

Pregnant. Not broken. He hopes it's still true when this is all over.

As the hours pass Harm slips into an all too familiar routine, sitting with Mac when he can and filling the time in between with the kind of mindless tasks that push the minutes a little faster but don't really change anything. He follows Bud out to the car, gets some clothes, and changes, switching his wallet, cell phone, and Mac's rings to his jeans pocket. He calls his CO, fills him in on what's going on, then places a virtually identical call to Mac's CO. And he gives his statement to the police officers who finally show up looking for him. The owner of the Jaguar is in custody, they tell him, and while Harm imagines the litany of charges the driver will face, he can't bring himself to feel any anger—only a deep, penetrating sadness.

Twice he asks the nurses why Mac hasn't woken up yet, but they only shrug and tell him to be patient. "She's suffered a trauma," they say. "Give her some time." And each time he nods and walks away. But he wants to shake them. He wants to get in their faces and yell, or shoot holes in the ceiling, or put his fist through the plate glass window that separates Mac's cubicle from the next. Because of course he knows she's suffered a trauma. Why the hell do they think she's here?

Three hours and two cups of stale coffee later he's back with Mac when she finally stirs. He has his head down again when it happens, too tired and worried to do anything else. In another minute or two the nurse will appear to chase him out again, and he'll be forced to return to the lounge with the same news he's been carrying all night. No change.

That's when he feels it—the slightest twitch of her fingers in his. His head snaps up, his gaze flying to her face. But nothing else happens, and he starts to wonder if he'd imagined it.

"Come on, Mac." His voice is low, urgent. "Wake up."

He watches, holding his breath, and when her eyelids flicker once, twice, and then finally stay open Harm wants to shout with joy. Instead he lifts her hand and presses a tender kiss against the soft skin.

"Welcome back, Marine." He can see the pain and confusion in her eyes, and when she slides her hand from his and her wrist knocks against the fetal heart monitor he sees fear, too. "The baby's fine," he assures her softly. She stares at him, and it isn't hard to see that she doesn't quite believe him. "Hang on," he says. "I'll let the doctor know you're awake so she can get that breathing tube out of your way. Then we can talk."

They make him leave while they take out the tube. He waits in the hallway, pacing restlessly, for what feels like an interminable length of time but is in reality only a few minutes. When one of the nurses waves him back in he finds Mac, pale but awake, in the midst of an argument with Dr. Carmichael.

"No way," Mac says, and he recognizes the stubborn tone even though her voice is scratchy and weak.

"What's going on?" Crossing to Mac's side, he takes her hand in his, but he's looking at the doctor.

"Your wife is refusing pain medication," Carmichael says, obviously frustrated. "Even though I've assured her that we can alleviate her symptoms without endangering the fetus."

"Baby," Mac corrects, "and I can handle pain."

"I know you can." Harm would be the last person to suggest otherwise. "But if Dr. Carmichael can make you more comfortable—"

"No."

Harm sighs, his gaze connecting with Carmichael's across the bed. "I generally find it counterproductive to argue with a Marine."

Dr. Carmichael makes a note in Mac's chart. "When she changes her mind," she tells Harm, "just let one of the nurses know."

"I won't change my mind," Mac insists.

"Mac ..."

She sets her jaw and gives him a mutinous stare, and it hits him that this isn't at all how he pictured this moment. Still, there's a kind of relief in seeing fire replace the pain in her eyes, if only for a moment.

Returning his attention to Dr. Carmichael he gives her a half-smile and a helpless shrug. The doctor shakes her head, tells Harm that now that Mac's awake he can lengthen his visits to fifteen minutes at a time, and excuses herself to see to her other patients.

"You had me worried," he says when they're alone.

"What happened?" She glances from the heart monitors to her sling encased left arm, then touches her fingertips to the bandages on her chest.

"How much do you remember?" He reaches for her hand, intending to pull it away from the bandages, but she snags his instead and lifts it, a questioning look in her eyes.

He shakes his head. "It's nothing."

"They don't wrap your hands in yards of gauze for nothing."

"I cut myself in the accident. Honestly, Mac. It's no big deal. Just a few stitches. Compared to you, I got off easy." He pulls his hand away and drops it to his side.

She still looks skeptical, but her eyelids droop and she blinks slowly, fighting the after-effects of the anesthesia.

"You should rest," he says. "It's the best thing for you right now."

"I'm not tired." But it's the same tone he's heard Bud's kids use when, eyes drooping, they begged to be allowed to stay up with the grownups.

"Don't argue with me."

"Did you talk to Mattie?"

"Yes, I talked to Mattie. She sends her love. And I left a message for Mom and Frank. Now stop worrying and get some sleep."

"Will you sit with me?"

The uncharacteristic vulnerability in her voice brings out every protective instinct he has.

"As much as the nurses will let me."

She gives a slight nod, relief in her eyes. "The accident," she murmurs sleepily. "Were a lot of people hurt?"

"I'll tell you all about it when you wake up." He bends, presses his lips to her forehead. "Think of it this way," he murmurs, "the baby could probably use a nap, too."

"If I weren't so sleepy I'd suspect you were handling me, Sailor."

It makes him smile against her skin. "I wouldn't dare."

He stays with her until he's sure she's asleep. Then he stands, stretches, and looks down at her for a long, quiet moment, feeling his world slowly start to right itself beneath his feet. She's going to be okay. _They're_ going to be okay.

This time when Harm steps into the lounge, he smiles broadly and watches relief chase the worry from his friends' faces.

"She's awake," he says. "And giving the doctor hell."

Harriet makes a strange sound, part laugh part sob, and buries her head in Bud's shoulder.

The admiral smiles. "That's good news."

"Yes it is."

"Glad to hear it, Harm." Sturgis rises from a chair near the window and comes to shake his hand.

"So am I." Returning the handshake, Harm glances from one friend to another. "And thank you. All of you. For being here."

Harriet sniffles and dabs at her eyes with a tissue Bud hands her from a box on the table. "We're just glad she's going to be okay."

Now that the crisis is over, Harm thinks maybe it's time to tell them the rest of the news. "You mean _they're_ going to be okay."

There's a brief moment of puzzled silence during which Harm exchanges a grin with Admiral Chegwidden. Then Harriet squeals, causing a passing nurse to give them all a disapproving glare.

Ignoring the nurse, Harriet bounces with excitement. "She's pregnant?"

Harm nods. "Due in February."

"Sir, that's wonderful!" Bud, grinning from ear to ear, claps him on the shoulder. "You and the colonel will make fantastic parents."

"Thanks, Bud. I appreciate the vote of confidence."

"Congratulations Harm." Sturgis looks genuinely pleased. "You're a lucky man."

"Yes," Harm agrees. "Yes, I am."

He stays with them for a few minutes longer, filling them in on the broad details of Mac's pregnancy and bantering with Bud about possible names—no, they won't name a son Jean Luc, nor will they name a daughter Guinan. Then he excuses himself to call Mattie and his mother.

Predictably, Mattie picks up the phone on the first ring and doesn't bother with a greeting.

"How's Mac?"

"Hello to you, too."

"Hi." A pause. Then. "So how is she?"

He laughs, and it feels good. "She says to tell you hi."

"She's awake?"

"Well, technically she's asleep now, but she was awake a few minutes ago. She asked about you, made the doctor take her off her pain meds, and went back to sleep."

On the other end of the line he hears a brief, heartfelt sigh of relief, and what he suspects is a sniffle. "So she really is going to be fine."

"Absolutely."

"Harm ... I was scared."

"So was I, Mats."

There's a brief moment of silence, another sniffle, and then, "So when are you coming home?"

"Hey, one step at a time, okay?"

"I know. I just miss you both. A lot."

"I miss you, too."

Harm glances at his watch, then does a quick calculation. "Aren't you supposed to be in class?"

"Couldn't concentrate." There's not an ounce of contrition in Mattie's voice. "Besides, I didn't want to miss your call."

"Last I checked cell phones were portable."

"They make you turn them off in class."

"You'd think your professors actually wanted you to listen to their lectures."

"Imagine that." But there's humor in her voice, and that familiar defiance that's always helped see her through tight spots. "So what happens now?"

"As soon as they're sure she's stable, they'll transfer Mac to Bethesda for a few days. Then it's just a matter of waiting for the doctors to give us clearance for the flight home."

"Soon?"

"I hope so."

"Me, too."

"Listen, Mattie. I've gotta go. It's about time to see Mac again."

"Okay. Call me."

"You know I will."

Harm ends the call and starts back toward the SICU, then changes his mind, detouring to the cafeteria to pick up fresh coffee for Admiral Chegwidden and the others. He drops it off with a quick smile, tells them he's spoken with Mattie, and exchanges a cordial handshake with Sturgis, who's heading out to meet Varese.

After Sturgis leaves, Harm turns to Bud and Harriet. "What about you?" he asks. "Don't you need to get home to the kids?"

Harriet shakes her head. "My parents are in town, so they're staying with the kids." She exchanges a speaking glance with Bud, and Harm catches Bud's slight nod. "We're staying until we can see for ourselves that the colonel's going to be okay."

Mac is still asleep when Harm settles himself in the chair beside the bed, but it doesn't bother him now. The breathing tube is gone, and the anesthesia is wearing off. He's spoken with her and looked into her eyes. It's enough.

Stretching his legs out as far as he can in the small space Harm tilts his head back and closes his eyes. He tells himself it's just for a little while, just until Mac wakes up. But the pressure's off, the hours of worry and waiting behind him, and despite his best efforts it isn't long before hazy images begin floating through his mind like frames from a silent movie.

Mac and Mattie in the garden, heads bent together over a sad looking tomato plant.

Mac standing on the beach in the rain, her arms stretched wide and her face turned up to the sky. She licks raindrops from her lips, rises to her toes, and twirls in a circle, part ballerina, part little girl.

Mom and Mac poring over old photo albums, pictures scattered around them like drifts of snow.

Mac lying on the couch, her feet propped against his thighs and her hand on her stomach while he plays a lullaby for their unborn child.

He and Mac at the Carlyle two nights ago, Mac dressed in something that shimmers like moonlight on water. They're dancing, and when she smiles up at him his mouth goes dry as an Iraqi desert.

Mac during those last minutes at the hotel, fire in her eyes. _Don't be stupid_.

Mac's face, battered and bloody.

His hands, slamming helplessly against a barrier he can't break.

Helplessness. Panic. The sound of sirens.

_Sirens!_

He wakes with a start. Not a siren. An alarm.

Before he can blink the sleep from his eyes a nurse rushes in. She takes one look at Mac and sends an urgent stream of orders over her shoulder. Harm hears numbers. Doctors' names.

"Mac?" More alarms sound as Harm leaps to his feet. "Mac!"

She doesn't respond. Her face is pale, her eyes closed. A nurse yanks the pillow from under Mac's head with one hand, pushes him away with the other.

"Step aside." She doesn't even look at him as she says it, her attention focused on Mac.

Numb with fear, he does as he's told.

Less than ninety seconds later they're wheeling her out of the room. Dr. Carmichael stays back just long enough to explain that they suspect internal bleeding and they're rushing her back to surgery.

"The fetus is in distress." She says it quietly, sympathetically, but there's urgency in her tone, and she glances down the hall after the gurney. "And your wife is barely hanging on. We're going to do everything we can to save them both, but it doesn't look good."

It shatters him. He sinks back into the chair, arms on his knees, head down. It's hard to breathe, impossible to think. There's only pain, and fear, and the inexorable echo of Dr. Carmichael's words in his head. _It doesn't look good_. He needs to be strong for Mac. But exhaustion drags at him, sucking him down like quicksand, and a nagging voice in his head whispers that the baby can't possibly survive more surgery. And maybe Mac can't either. Maybe, the voice suggests, his refusal to give up is nothing more than a futile attempt to deny the inevitable.

Harm is still there when Bud comes looking for him a few minutes later, but he doesn't look up at the sound of his friend's voice.

"Sir?"

Harm says nothing. He can't bring himself to tell Bud that when they'd wheeled Mac out of the SICU her skin had been waxy and pale, her lips tinged blue. And he can't bear to name the resignation he'd seen in Doctor Carmichael's eyes—because in naming it, he'd be giving it weight. In naming it, he might make it true.

"Sir ... you were gone so long, we started to worry about you. Is everything all right?"

It isn't until then that Harm realizes his face is wet. He turns his head away, swipes at his cheeks with the back of his hand, and struggles to pull himself together.

"She's ..." Shaking his head, he blows out a breath and wills his voice steady. "They had to take her back to surgery."

He looks up then, so he sees the worry darken Bud's eyes, sees him cast a glance down the hall.

"What happened?"

"The doctor suspects internal bleeding."

Bud's already concerned expression turns even more somber. "That's what happened to me."

"Yeah." A reminder Harm neither needed nor wanted. "I know."

"Sir ... I almost died."

It isn't unusual for Bud to engage his mouth before his brain, but Harm wishes this hadn't been one of those times. Apparently Bud does, too, because he backpedals in a voice that's a shade too bright.

"But I came through it okay. The colonel will, too. She's strong."

Yes, but is she strong enough for this? Is _he_? Aloud, Harm says, "Yes she is, Bud."

"Is the baby okay?"

Somewhere Harm finds the strength to shake his head and repeat Dr. Carmichael's words. "It doesn't look good."

They're interrupted by one of the charge nurses, a silver-haired woman with laugh lines at the corners of her eyes.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I'll have to ask you to wait in the lounge."

Her voice sounds like warm cookies and cold milk, and she can't be more than about five feet tall, but there's steel in her gaze, and her posture is more drill sergeant than grandparent.

Harm gets silently to his feet and walks out without looking back and without waiting for Bud.

Bud doesn't say anything either, but he stays close. And when their gazes cross as the door closes behind them it's empathy Harm sees in Bud's eyes, not pity. It hits him then that Bud and Harriet are in a unique position to understand what he's going through. They've been there themselves.

Harm stops outside the waiting room door, and when Bud gives him a questioning look he shrugs and shakes his head. Bud nods, moves ahead, and a few seconds later Harm hears him talking with the others, his voice too soft to be distinct. It's a small consideration, but Harm is immeasurably grateful. He doesn't think he could bear hearing the explanation—much less giving it—again.

There's a vending machine at the end of the hall. Harm drops in quarters, waits for the bottle of water to drop, and fishes it out. He isn't thirsty, but it buys time for him to gather his thoughts. Icy beverage in hand he makes his way back to the waiting room, and without meeting anybody's eyes, drops heavily into the closest chair.

Silence blankets the small group, and time seems almost to stop. Why, Harm wonders as he checks his watch for what feels like the fifteenth time, had he allowed their trip to end the way it had? Why hadn't he deflected the conversation, or at least done a better job controlling its outcome? It isn't as if her reaction had come as a surprise. He'd known from the instant he heard about the assignment that she would want him to go—and that she would be furious if she suspected he was turning it down because of her. But he hadn't put her off, and now he replays the conversation in his head like a football coach reviewing a bad play.

"They're offering you a chance to make things right over there, Harm. You could put your father's memory to rest once and for all. Why would you turn that down?"

"I put Dad's memory to rest years ago. I don't need to go back to Russia to find closure."

"What about the other American POWs who were there with him? Don't their families deserve closure, too?"

"Of course they do. And they'll get it. From somebody else."

"The Russian ambassador requested you by name. They trust you. And whatever else they might think about Americans, they believe you to be an honorable man. They also know you wouldn't be looking to make political hay out of any information you find. That kind of trust is rare as hens' teeth over there, and you know it. You could make more progress in one week than anybody else could in six."

"Hens' teeth are pretty rare everywhere, Mac." He lifted his hands, forestalling her protest. "And that'd be fine—if it was a one week deployment. But they want me for ninety days. I'm not leaving you for that long. Not now."

"Stop hovering! I'm fine. This baby," she rested her hand on her stomach, "is fine. What are you going to do, stand around and stare at me for the next six months?"

"Of course not. But if something does go wrong I don't want to be buried in some musty file room in the third sub-basement of the Kremlin, either."

Her mouth twisted sardonically. "I don't think the Kremlin has sub-basements, Harm."

"I wouldn't be too sure."

"If you turn this down," she said, "you might as well retire. You'll never make JAG."

He folded his arms across his chest, legs braced, and stared at her. "Then maybe it's time I retire." When would she understand that his career wasn't his life anymore? Everything he needed to be happy was standing right in front of him.

Her eyes flashed, her jaw tightening. "Don't be stupid."

"I'm not being stupid. Just practical." He glanced at his watch and reached for their bags. "We can talk about this later," he said, though he had no intention of changing his mind. "Right now we've got a plane to catch."

She twisted her hand in his shirt and pulled him in for a swift, hard kiss. "This isn't over."

Dropping the bags, he'd caught her to him when she would've stepped away. "I didn't imagine it was." The kiss he'd given her was longer, more lingering, and when he'd pulled back he'd been pleased by the slightly glazed expression on her face. "But this is one case you aren't going to win."

But he'd been wavering. As he'd pulled his car onto the road behind hers, leaving the hotel behind, he'd wondered if maybe he really was being overprotective. A ninety day assignment would mean he'd be home before Christmas—well before the baby's due date. And according to Mac's doctors, there was no reason to expect anything other than a normal pregnancy. Still, the thought of being away from her ...

He lifts his head, blinking the thoughts away. It's moot now. If she pulls through this, there's no way he's leaving her—not even for a plum assignment that could put a star on his collar.

His cell phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out and glances at the screen.

Mom.

He's suddenly grateful for the hospital's strict rules on cell phone usage, because what would he say to her right now? Where would he find the words to tell her that the daughter-in-law she's grown to love might not survive the hour?

"Don't go there, Harm."

Harm looks up, meeting the admiral's penetrating stare. Chegwidden has always had a disconcerting ability to know what he's thinking. "Kind of hard not to."

"This is no place for defeatist attitudes, son. She'll pull through this. You have to have faith."

"Why?" Unaccountably furious, Harm leaps to his feet and paces to the other end of the small room. Three steps. About face. Three steps back. "Why should I believe anything other than what the doctors tell me?"

The admiral is on his feet, too. "Did they tell you she's dead? Did they tell you the baby is dead?"

The bald statement shocks Harm. "No, but—"

"Then stop acting as if they are."

"I'm not—"

"Was that your mother on the phone?"

Harm doesn't answer. Instead he turns away and crosses to the grimy window. Behind him, the admiral continues.

"It was her, wasn't it. And you're wondering how you're going to tell her that her daughter-in-law and grandchild are dead."

It's too close to the truth for Harm not to cringe.

"Don't do that to yourself, Harm. Don't do it to Mac."

"I'm not doing anything to Mac, sir. That honor goes to some adolescent asshole with an entitlement complex the size of Texas."

"Then you be mad at that asshole. You be mad at the weather, or the damned tanker truck or ... God, I don't know. Rail at the fates if it makes you feel better. But don't you _dare_ give up on your wife and child."

It's all Harm can do not to throw a punch. Fury burns in his chest and fists his hands so tight that the stitches burn and pull. He shifts, rising to the balls of his feet, adjusting his stance. His breath heaves. Burns. He wants to strike out. Wants it so badly his vision blurs and his head pounds with it.

The admiral watches him, but if the ex-SEAL feels threatened, he gives no sign.

Seconds tick by. One. Then another. And a third.

Harm feels a light touch on his arm. He twists around, arms up, elbows tucked.

And meets Harriet's stern gaze.

"You aren't going to hit anybody," she says firmly. "And you aren't going to put your fist through that window, either. I don't care how much you want to."

Harm blinks, nonplussed.

Harriet turns to Bud. "I don't know about anybody else, but I'm hungry," she says calmly. "Would you mind walking down to the cafeteria with Harm and bringing back some sandwiches?"

His given name. Not his rank. Harm can't remember if he's ever heard Harriet say it before, and it stops him cold. His fingers open. His hands drop to his sides. He sees Bud's eyes shift from him and the admiral to Harriet. There's something of admiration in their depths.

"Sure, dear. Do you want chips, too?"

Feeling a little like the rug has just been pulled from under his feet, Harm blinks again. Is that a glint of amused sympathy in Bud's gaze now? And is that gratitude he sees on the admiral's face?

"A sandwich will be fine." Harriet glances at the collection of empty paper cups on the scarred table. "And maybe some fresh coffee. Admiral? Would you like anything?"

"Just coffee. Thank you."

Before Harm can gather his wits he finds himself walking out the door at Bud's side. They're halfway to the cafeteria before he can sort himself out enough to say anything.

"What just happened?"

Bud's chuckle is low and sympathetic. "Pretty impressive, isn't she? You should see her with the boys."

"I think I'd use the word formidable."

Bud grins and pulls open the cafeteria door. "I'll say this much, sir. We'd better have food when we go back there or Harriet will have our heads."

"I'm not entirely sure you mean that in the figurative sense, Bud."

Bud's laughter makes heads turn in the cafeteria, and even Harm can't quite hold back a grin.

Ten minutes later they arrive back at the waiting room to matching shakes of the head from Harriet and the admiral. No news yet. Harm distributes the sandwiches while Bud hands around cups full of steaming coffee. The others unfold their paper-wrapped food and settle in to eat, but Harm sets his sandwich down and crosses back to the door.

"Going somewhere?" The admiral's words are a little muffled around his mouthful of turkey and whole wheat.

Harm barely glances back. "I want to see if there's any news."

"You know," Harriet says, setting aside her coffee. "I remember when Bud was at Bethesda. The nurses practically begged me to stop calling every five minutes. They said they'd let me know if there was any change in Bud's condition, and that all I was doing by phoning up there all the time was keeping them from seeing to their other patients."

Harm pauses. Looks around. Harriet meets his gaze with one of serene innocence. "Of course," she says, "that was Bethesda. Maybe they have a bigger staff here."

He should sit down. He knows that. He isn't doing anybody any good by pacing the floor and glaring at the nurses.

But he can't just sit here and pretend that everything's fine, either.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "But I have to do this."

"You need to eat," she says. She's worried about him. It's there in her eyes. And he doesn't understand why. Mac's the one who's in trouble, not him. But when Harriet gets up and comes to put her hand on his arm, the expression on her face brings a lump to his throat. "You can't go on like this."

Harm glances at the sandwich that sits, wrapped and a little forlorn, on one of the tables. The thought of eating it makes his stomach roil.

"In a while," he says, and though he doesn't like hurting her feelings he's pretty sure that if he has to look into the sympathetic eyes of his friends for five more seconds, he's going to go a little bit mad. Pulling away from her and glancing an apology at the others, he makes his escape.

The nurses don't have any news, so Harm resumes pacing the halls, stopping only to make a quick dash into the restroom to splash cold water on his face. The mirror reflects a grim, haggard face and spiky disheveled hair. He runs his fingers through his hair, scrubs at his tired eyes, and turns off the water.

Back in the hallway, Harm leans against the wall and draws a memory of Mac into his mind. Holds it there, like balm on an open wound.

It's a Sunday morning. The open bedroom windows are letting in a fresh breeze, and he imagines he can hear the ocean in the distance. Mac's body is curled, soft and yielding into his. In his mind he closes his arms around her and inhales the scent of her hair—something light and tropical. When she doesn't respond he teases her awake with the warmth of his breath against her skin. Then he draws back and watches her, delighted when she opens her eyes, gives him a sleepy smile, and stretches against him like a lazy, sun-drenched cat.

"Captain Rabb."

He starts. Surprise flickers through him at the sight of Dr. Carmichael's long white coat. Why didn't he see her approach? He eyes her warily, seeking a clue to her thoughts in her face, but her expression is frustratingly impassive.

"There's a consultation room available just down the hall. If you'll come with me?"

He nods and falls into step beside her, but it's a struggle not to grab her by the lapels and demand answers.

When the door closes behind them Dr. Carmichael takes a deep breath, lets it out on a sigh. She looks tired, and for the first time Harm realizes that she's been here at least as long as he has.

"Your wife is going to be fine," she says, tucking her hands in her pockets. "Apparently she sustained some damage to her left inferior pulmonary vein during the course of the accident. The damage was minimal, which is probably why we missed it during the first surgery, but it allowed a slow seepage of blood into the surrounding tissue, eventually leading to the arrest you saw in the SICU. We were able to repair the damage, and your wife's condition is stable. The nurses are getting her settled in SICU now." She glances at her watch. "You should be able to see her as soon as we're finished here. "

The news is a gift—countless birthdays and Christmases wrapped up together in a single sheet of golden paper and topped with the biggest bow the world has ever seen. But Harm's relief is tempered by concern.

"What about the baby?"

A smile tugs at the corners of Dr. Carmichael's mouth. "Damndest thing I've seen in months," she says. "Before we went in there I was convinced we were going to lose that baby. The fetal heartbeat was severely depressed, and we were seeing signs of premature labor." Her smile widens, and Harm could almost swear he sees a spark of mischief in her eyes. "But that must be one stubborn kid, because as soon as we got your wife stabilized the fetal heartbeat evened out and the contractions stopped. My guess is you're headed for eighteen years of hell on wheels with that one."

Harm smiles broadly. "Considering who his parents are, that's about what we've been expecting." He wants to hug her, or pump her arm up and down in the kind of handshake that would make her rub at her shoulder afterward, but propriety precludes the former and stitches the latter, so he settles for a heartfelt, "Thank you, Doctor. Thank you for everything."

He's out the door and on his way to see Mac before she can respond.

This time Mac comes out of the anesthesia more quickly. She refuses pain medication again, tells him he looks terrible, and when she finds out that Bud, Harriet, and the admiral have been sitting in the waiting room since the accident she rolls her eyes and tells him he should send them home.

"I've tried," he says, "but they're stubborn."

"And you aren't?" she responds, without missing a beat.

They move her to recovery twelve hours later, and though Harm can see she's in pain she hides it from the others each time they visit, and glares at Harm when he tries to convince her that she needs to rest.

It's Bud who finally tells her what happened to Harm's hands.

"Not too smart, Navy." But her eyes are soft and warm when she looks at him.

"What was I supposed to do, leave you there?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe wait for the professionals?"

"Not going to happen, Mac. No way was I just going to stand back and wait for somebody else to get you out of there."

And it's Mac who finally tells his mother and Frank the story of what happened and reassures them that she's okay. Then a few minutes later she talks to Mattie and they both end up in tears, which makes Harm love them just a little bit more even as he teases them about it.

They transfer Mac to Bethesda that evening, and Bud and Harriet insist that Harm stay with them instead of renting a hotel room. It's an eye-opening experience—kids everywhere, and every room a minefield of toys. It's chaotic, and noisy, and Harm gains new respect for Harriet's ability to organize her troops with that quiet voice of authority that even he doesn't dare argue with. But he spends most of his time at the hospital with Mac, and it's there that the subject of Russia comes up again.

"Have you spoken with Admiral Barnes?" she asks, referring to his CO.

They've just come back from walking the halls, something the doctors and nurses insist she do several times a day.

"This morning," he says, adjusting the sheet over her legs. "Why?"

"Did you talk about Russia?"

He pauses, looking up from the simple task to meet a familiar glint in her eyes.

"I turned down the assignment, Mac."

"You're joking."

"I've never been more serious."

"But why? The doctors say I'm doing fine."

"And that's good news, but there's no way in hell I'm flying off to Russia and leaving you here alone."

"I wouldn't be alone. Mattie'll be with me."

"Mattie has school."

"Harm—"

But he interrupts her with a firm shake of his head. Seating himself on the edge of the bed, he takes her hand in his. The thick gauze is looking a little the worse for wear, but at least his hands no longer throb every time he touches her.

"Mac, I couldn't live with myself if something happened to you while I was over there."

Seeing the protest forming in her eyes, he uses his free hand to press his fingers to her lips.

"Don't argue with me, Mac. Please? My place is here, now."

"Turning down assignments is a quick way to end your career."

"We've been over that."

"You would give up an admiralship."

"In a heartbeat."

"No regrets?"

"None."

She still looks doubtful. He lets his hand fall away from her mouth to settle on her stomach.

"This is what matters to me, Mac. This baby, and you, and Mattie, and the life we're building together as a family. And if I have to take a job scrubbing barnacles off of rowboats in order to have that life, then that's what I'm going to do."

It makes her laugh, and then she gasps as her rib complains.

"I don't think it'll get that bad," she says, rubbing lightly at the bandages covering her chest.

"Exactly." Capturing her hand and drawing it away from the bandages, he presses a kiss against her knuckles. "So stop worrying."

"I just want you to be happy."

Bending down, he touches his forehead to hers. "You're alive," he says quietly, "and our baby is alive." Lifting his head so that he can look into her eyes, he smiles. "There isn't a soul on this planet who's as happy as I am right now."

Lifting her hand to the back of his neck she pulls him down for a kiss. "I disagree," she murmurs against his lips, "I can think of at least one."


End file.
